


All the Arts of Hurting

by draculard



Series: All the Arts of Hurting [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bruises, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, You don't have to read Part 1 of this series to read this fic, it's a standalone, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-11-01 23:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: She doesn't have any of Lady Catelyn's hardiness yet. When Brienne first meets her, Sansa is all unblemished skin, soft hair, and wide, wet eyes. She tries to glare when Brienne puts her fingers under her chin and tilts her head into the light, but her trembling gives her away.It's because she wants this, Brienne tells herself. She wants it so badly she shakes.





	All the Arts of Hurting

She doesn’t have any of Lady Catelyn’s hardiness yet. When Brienne first meets her, Sansa is all unblemished skin, soft hair, and wide, wet eyes. She tries to glare when Brienne puts her fingers underneath her chin and tilts her face into the light, but her trembling gives her away. 

_ It’s because she wants this, _ Brienne tells herself.  _ She wants it so badly she shakes.  _

But this doesn’t change the fact that Brienne, like all the men who came before her, is tall and rough and broad. It doesn’t hide the calluses on her hands, the dryness of her lips. It doesn’t erase the smell of sweat on her skin.

She hopes Sansa can learn to see some kind of softness in Brienne.

Until then, she’ll have to learn to like being hurt.

* * *

“You’ll teach me how to fight,” Sansa says. There’s a bruise on her jawline, pale but noticeable. It stands out stark against her hair. 

Brienne pictures Sansa’s long, pale fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword. She pictures that delicate face painted with mud after a fight, sweat leaving white streaks in the dirt. 

She pictures that fine red hair in disarray and smiles. That part she could learn to like.

“I’ll try,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it. If Sansa can fight, she’ll never need Brienne’s rough hands again.

* * *

When the fire is bright enough, they don’t bother with clothes in the bedroom. Brienne sits in the corner where the bed meets the wall, her skin bare against the stone, an old animal hide resting over her legs. She watches Sansa cry, her own face frozen, from afar.

Sansa cries so prettily, Brienne thinks distantly. That’s the problem; she does everything prettily. Grieving, killing, being hurt — she does it all with that green glitter in her eyes, with the light catching her hair so it looks like pale fire or a far-off sun, with a pale pink blush painting her cheeks, her neck, her unclothed breasts. 

Men can’t resist a girl who hurts so prettily.

Brienne can’t, either. She watches each tear as it falls from Sansa’s eyes, a perfect drop of clear water landing on those dainty hands, those bruised wrists. If there’s anything wrong with Sansa, it’s that her ribs stick out too much these days, and even that Brienne likes. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice low. It’s not enough words, not the right words, either. And it’s too late. Still, Sansa nods and wipes her eyes gracefully, with one dignified brush of her hand.

“It’s fine,” she says, and Brienne reaches for her, cups the back of the head, feels the knot forming beneath Sansa’s hair.

“It’s not,” she says.

Sansa doesn’t reply. Her lips find Brienne’s, or Brienne’s find hers — chapped, dry lips against soft ones lined with something smooth and fragrant. Rough, harsh lips against lips conditioned to accept whatever comes their way, yet trying to fight back.

_ Keep fighting, _ Brienne thinks. She likes to see that spark of defiance in Sansa, the iron spine hidden under ivory skin. She tells herself this feeling is altruistic, that she wants to see this wolf pup grow into a vicious beast.

The truth is she just likes to fight back. 

* * *

The first time Sansa bruises Brienne, it swells into a goose egg — a great, ugly mass of black and purple on her ribs that just seems to grow and grow. It’s tender to the touch, so both of them touch it. Neither of them seems able to stop.

“Does this hurt?” Sansa asks. 

And: “I’m sorry, you know. I’m sorry it hurts.” 

And: "I didn’t mean to.”

And none of that is true, Brienne knows, so she pulls Sansa into yet another rough kiss. 

“I like it,” she says, her breath hot on Sansa’s skin.

It’s the first honest thing she’s said in years. 


End file.
